


After the Ending

by subwaywall



Series: Swan Song [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Cello, Depression, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco's patronus shows up, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Healthy Relationships, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lack of Communication, M/M, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, Past Rape/Non-con, Patronus, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Rebuilding Hogwarts, Recovery, Relationship Issues, Relationship(s), Sexual Humor, Swan imagery, Violins, compatibility isn't enough folks, hard conversations, no smut!, relationships can't fix what's broken, temporarily asexual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 14:37:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11853636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subwaywall/pseuds/subwaywall
Summary: The Dark Lord is dead. But for the survivors, it feels like the war's just begun.This is a story of finding meaning in the space after.This is the story of how Draco Malfoy wills himself to live.This is the story after the ending has come and gone.





	After the Ending

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of my previous work, (Part 1 of Swan Song) and this might not make much sense without it. My recommendation is to go back and read it. The archive warnings that apply there tend to apply less strongly for this one, but there is recollection of severe trauma.   
> Special thanks to my amazing editor and beta, [ByCandlelight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ByCandlelight)  
> Enjoy (if that can be said in a context such as this)!   
> like the last one, it's in first person.

"You're not the same, Draco—and I don't need you to be the same, I just need to know what's going on. I need to know if there's anything I can do, or else I'll just stand around being a bloody useless git when you could be telling me what you need right now."

_ I need to stay unbothered in my room, alone, so I can trace the cobwebs with my eyes and pretend that Draco Malfoy died in the basement of his childhood home. I need to change the subject. _

"I'm not okay," I acknowledge—acknowledge it and he'll think I'm moving forward, that's what he wants to hear—"but there's nothing you can do to make it okay, so—"

"Draco—" he puts hand on my shoulder and I flinch, I don't mean to flinch but I do anyway, even though I know how much it hurts him. I can't make my body listen to me anymore, it's a stupid, jumpy thing—and I used to be so graceful.

"I've only been back four days, Harry," I say flatly, "Give me some time."

He looks at me with sad eyes. "I have to go," he says. "Hogwarts—I don't want to. I want to stay."

Of course the war hasn't stopped. And I'm still needy as ever; I'm holding him back when he needs to go. "Go," I say. I don't meet his eyes. He reaches out his hand again to grasp mine, and I let him.

"I love you," he says, almost desperately, but desperation doesn't fix  _ this. Love doesn't fix this. _

My voice softens a little anyway, even though I hate how this declaration seems forced; I don't want to say it; I'm not ready to say it. I say it anyway. "And I, you. Now go."

He leaves me alone in an empty room, and the thought occurs to me only much later that Harry might not come back.

I don't think of anything else. It's easy to lie in bed and stare off into space. I know I should go to Diagon Alley—to get myself a wand at Ollivander's, but I’m not sure if the shop is even open still. I've missed a lot of what's happened and I'm too apathetic to ask.

Eventually, I get up to shower. I don't want to, but I don't want to do a lot of things, now. The idea that Harry might not come back is agonizing.

I wait. I pace. The sun creeps through the sky so very slowly. I get back into my bed and I think casually that it might have been better if I never made it out alive. I hope Harry does, though. Even if that means I have to face him and apologize for not wanting to live anymore, that boy deserves a happy life. He deserves a family. He deserves to treat his sons better than he was treated as a child. He deserves someone who collapses into his arms like he's the answer to all of the universe’s questions.

He deserves better than having me flinch away.

I put on the same pair of clothes. The shirt covers the scars on my arm, the bruises on my chest. It buttons up high enough to disguise the collar still looped around my neck and the bite mark that Fenrir left. I don't look at it. I don't have a wand to heal it, and I couldn't bring myself to tell a soul.

I leave the room for the first time in at least two days, and wander through the house. It's the old family home of my grandparents on my mother's side. The house creaks but it is empty. The rooms are abandoned. No one is home, but my mind is too fuzzy to understand why.

I reach the kitchen, and the Dark Mark on my arm comes to life. It itches and aches; the snake that slithers round and round the mark fixes its beady eyes on me, and the Dark Mark summons me.

Hogwarts calls to me, because the Dark Lord calls me there.  _ That's where Harry is.  _ I don’t move. Even if I could trust myself to Apparate, I don’t have a wand. Instead, I sink down into the kitchen floor and hope that all the people I care about will come back to me. 

That night, I lay on my back in bed, unsleeping, and hope that in the morning, it will be the Order that comes home. 

Harry does come back, after all.

But he is different.

He lies down next to me, not touching me, and we stare at the ceiling together. I don't tell him how glad I am he's alive. I don't cling onto him; I don't reach out and pull him towards me. I want to, but touch can ruin the best of things.

"I can't know what happened—" he begins, and I remember that words can ruin the best of things, too. "But I know it's hard on all of us. And whatever happened to Hermione—she won't look at Ron. She won't even answer him when he talks to her. When he enters a room, she makes up some excuse and leaves. And Draco—"

"What happened to Granger isn't something she'd want me talking about," I say.

"What about what happened to you?"

"You'd have to ask Bellatrix Lestrange about that," I reply. I'm angry again, and I don't know why.

"Bellatrix is dead. Most of them are," he says, "I forgot you mustn't know. Your parents are okay, though," he adds.

"Unfortunate," I spit. 

"Your mother saved my life," he whispers. He sees my face and sees how I don't believe him, so he adds, "She lied to Voldemort—she did the right thing, in the end."

"Who killed Bellatrix?" I ask, still not knowing what to say.

"Molly," says Harry, "And she had the right. Fred—Fred's been killed."

_ Oh. Who else? I can't ask. I don't want to know. _

"Who else?" I ask.

"Colin Creevey," says Harry, and his face is twisted in grief. "Remus. Tonks. Teddy's an orphan," he says. He looks like he thinks it's his responsibility. I turn to face him instinctively, lying on my side. I reach over and brush the side of his face with my hand, and I say, "I'm sorry."

I can't fix it. No one can, and he'll see himself in that boy.  _ Too many orphans. _

"Lavender might live. Bellatrix is dead for sure. Fenrir, too."

_ I hope they suffered, _ is all I can think. I can't even begin to mourn. I'm not even in the position to mourn these people; I barely knew them. But Lupin, who gave me chocolate. And Tonks, who loved him—they must be worth mourning. And Harry is mourning them--every single one of them, it's written all over his face and it jars me out of my self-absorbed, self-imposed coma.

"Who else?" I say, and because he looks at me with pity, I know it must be someone I care about.

"Snape," he says. I don't know what to say. "And Crabbe. I'm sorry. Too many people."

I nod, numbly. "I'm sorry," he adds. "I couldn't risk bringing you with me, I thought—"

_ He thought I couldn't handle it; he thought I'd fall apart. _

"I couldn't watch you be in danger," he says finally, "not once I realized what I had to do." He fumbles for words. "I—I figured out what the prophecy meant the whole time," he finally chokes out. "There was a Horcrux in me, Draco.  _ Neither can live while the other survives.  _ He had to kill me."

_ He knew he had to die. I've been so selfish. _

"You're here," I say stubbornly, because I don't know how to ask how. "Only because you're brave," I add. (I'm not, that's why I had to stay behind.)

"I saw Dumbledore. And everyone else that died; they were there," he says, and I finally reach out and hold him as he curls into a ball, wracked with sobs. "I could've stayed, Draco. I almost stayed."

I smooth his hair and run my fingers through it. "Those people that died—they shouldn't have died," he says, and I murmur, “I know, I know.”

For a moment I forget why I’m sitting here uselessly, because the boy--no, the man--I love is lying by my side and he has sacrificed far, far more than me. 

“You did your best,” I say, and know it’s true because I know Harry. 

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he says.

“I thought the same,” I reply. My hands tease through his messy hair again, and I let him cry in my arms until his breaths turn steady and deep. He falls asleep and I want to take away everything he must be feeling. I forget for a minute that he’s stronger than me, anyway. 

I wake up because my arm is cramping under Harry’s shoulder, and I panic for a moment. It takes me a few seconds to remember that I’m fine; I’m with the Order, and it’s Harry lying by my side. I still wake Harry up with my inevitable jolt, but he doesn’t seem too bothered, just a little groggy. 

Harry readjusts himself ontop of the bed’s blankets, but I stand up and pace the room. His eyes don’t leave me, but neither of us says anything. 

_ We’re so young; how are we supposed to know what to do?  _

My knees crack.  _ I take it back, I feel old.  _

Harry’s wand is abandoned on the counter, and I’m tempted to take it--it would be easy, really. Just take it, lock myself in the bathroom, and get the damned collar off of me. It seems like it gets heavier--and tighter--by the hour. 

I don’t know why I feel like I have to hide it, anyway. By the way I’ve been acting he can probably guess what’s happened--no, what’s been done--to me. 

I eye the wand again, but I don’t snatch it up as I walk out of the room. I have something to do before that. I need to find Hermione. 

I don’t have long to look. In fact, as soon as I descend the stairs, I run into her. She obviously hasn’t showered: her hair is matted, there is soot on her face, and she has a fresh cut on her cheek. 

It dawns on me that Hermione went to the battle. It makes me more than a little angry, mostly at myself:  _ how could I be weak, when she-- _

“Draco,” she says. “I was looking for you. We need to talk.” 

I nod mutely, and she holds out her wand--and it is her wand, not the child-like replacement that we wrestled out of her arm--and pulls me into an adjacent empty room. 

She strings up a privacy charm so fast I can’t even comprehend what’s happening. 

“Has Harry told you what happened?” she says. 

“Which part?”

She rolls her eyes; she’s exasperated and exhausted and apparently I’m just not understanding what she’s trying to say quite quickly enough. “You idiot,” she says. “Did Harry tell you that he had to die to kill Lord Voldemort.”

It is hardly a question. It is a statement, to make sure that I know and understand the implications. 

“He told me,” I say. 

“He didn’t tell you what he did, though,” she says. “He knew he was going to die, Draco. He left me a letter to give to you, and another one for Teddy and Ron and me and Ginny. He knew, for days, that he had to give himself up. He walked to the Dark Forest alone, Draco, and he asked Lord Voldemort to kill him and that’s the only reason why we won.”

There are tears in her eyes and I think my mouth drops open. 

“Fuck,” I say. It’s barely a murmur.  _ What on earth did we do to deserve that man? What on earth did  _ I _ do?  _

“He deserves to know what you did for me, and Astoria. But really, what you did for me was for him, I know that,” says Hermione. 

I shake my head, even though I’m not sure that she’s wrong. “I did it for me,” I say instead. “I couldn’t have lived with myself otherwise.”

She pulls me towards her again, and I don’t know why she’s the only person it doesn’t hurt to touch. “You’re like him, you know. You don’t see it, but you are. Everyone else--it’s different with us, it’s--” she says. 

“I couldn’t--”

“You thought you would die, Draco. And what would have happened to you--”

“Was worse than death,” I say,  _ and I let it happen to you.  _

I look at her again and marvel at how she dragged herself out of bed, how she went to fight anyway. 

“I had to go to the battle,” she says, and for a moment I think she’s reading my mind. “I thought I could find him and kill him. I tried to. And it’s a good thing I failed--it’s a good thing things happened the way they did.”

“It’s improbable,” I say. “How things turned out.” She looks sadly at me, and I remember that Fred was her friend. Lupin was her mentor. Tonks was her confidante. And she almost lost Harry--her best friend. 

“I need to ask you something,” she says. “Does Harry know--know what’s happened?”

I shake my head but don’t bring myself to speak. 

“Do you want him to know?”

“I can’t tell him,” I say.  _ But I can’t touch him, either.  _

“Ron--” she says, “I love Ron.” I raise my eyebrows at her, and she looks at me in disapproval. “He doesn’t know. I can’t look at him. I can’t tell him what happened but he thinks it’s his fault, I can’t explain why I have all this anger; I’ve never felt so much hatred in all my--”

She takes a deep breath. “In all my life,” she finishes. 

She looks at me imploringly, and gets to her point: “I’m not good with talking, or being gentle, or-- I can’t tell him. But he deserves to know, to know what happened to me, or to both of us. But no one except for you knows. Draco, I can’t stand to see him angry, I know how angry he’ll be--”

“If he’s angry at you, he’s even stupider than I assumed,” I say. “You did nothing wrong.”

“He wouldn’t be angry  _ with  _ me, but he’d be angry,” says Hermione. “Wouldn’t you be? Wouldn’t you--Don’t you want to kill the people that make Harry hurt?”

I swallow. “Of course I do. And I, I can’t really blame you for wanting to kill my father.” It’s a painful thing to say, but I say it anyway: “It’s crossed my mind, too.”

“I’m not handling this awfully well,” says Hermione. 

“There’s not a good way to handle it. At least you have fight left in you.” 

“I’d imagine I wouldn’t, if--” I look at her sharply. She doesn’t dare complete the thought. 

“You want me to tell Ron what happened to you, don’t you?” I ask. 

“I’m afraid so,” she says. 

“No kidding,” I say sharply. 

She sighs. “I shouldn’t have asked. He deserves to hear it from me, I just--”

“I’ll do it, against my better judgement,” I say, and immediately a solution to my problem materializes. “You can tell Harry?” I ask. 

“Draco,” she says, “I don’t even really know what happened--”

“He doesn’t need to know the details,” I say. “But it was bad. I won’t think about it.”

“What do I tell him?” she says finally, and I know she hates the idea of having to tell him. 

What should she tell him? How can what happened even be explained? 

_ Tell him that most of the bones in my ribs were broken. Tell him my hand was mangled almost beyond repair; tell him I have the word TRAITOR written in the flesh overtop my Dark Mark. Tell him that Bellatrix Lestrange made me  _ like  _ it, made me relive my most vulnerable moment, and that I can’t look at him for now. Tell him that Fenrir coated me in dirt and filth and blood and semen and made me beg him to be fucked. Tell him that I know what Amycus Carrow’s penis tastes like. Tell him all my happiest memories are tainted with what was happening to me while I thought of them. Tell him I feel like someone scooped out all my hopes, dreams, and will to live and filled me back up with a vile, viscous liquid that tastes like mud, cheap aftershave, and wet fur.  _

“Tell him I was tortured,” I say briefly, “You can tell him I was raped.” The word sounds strange and evil and I try not to think about it. “I thought I would die,” I say. “I wanted to die. Tell him I’m not sure I’ll be the same.” My voice is small when I add, “I can’t let him touch me. I can touch him but when he tries to touch me I just--”

Hermione nods. “I know,” she says. “I know. I’ll tell him. Harry--if anyone could understand, it’s him.” 

“Granger, this is a bad idea” I say, “They deserve to hear it from us, and Weasley, he really hates me anyway.” 

“I know,” says Hermione, “I’m scared of that too. It’s just--I can’t.”

I nod. I understand, even if it’s far from ideal. They need to know, but we can’t stand to say it to them. A thought crosses my mind. “Is Pansy Parkinson alive?”

“She was at the battle,” says Hermione. “She wanted to turn Harry in, but in the end, she came back with the reinforcements. She’s fine. Why--”

I’m proud of her. “Bellatrix made her--made her crucio me,” I explain as briefly as I can. “She was my closest friend.” 

“I won’t ever forgive her,” says Hermione. She means Bellatrix. “I wish she was alive so I could kill her again.”

I don’t. I’m glad she’s dead. I’m glad Fenrir’s dead, and I’m glad the Carrows are ruined. There’s no anger left in me. I needed that anger, while I was in the basement, but it’s gone now. I’m glad Hermione has hers. I’m sure we’ll need it still. But I have nothing left. 

She turns to go, but I need one more thing from her. 

“Wait. Granger--you have a wand, can I borrow it?” 

“What do you need it for? We can get you a new one, now the war’s over--Ollivander’s is opening again soon--”

“Granger, I need it now.” She looks at me, a little afraid. “Please,” I add. 

She still looks skeptical, and I realize now in this instant that I don’t care anymore, I need it off me. I pull down my shirt collar, ripping off the top button, and--

“Get it off me, I don’t care if it burns or hurts, just get it off, please,” I say, and it feels like I’m panicking again.  _ I am panicking, again.  _

“Hold still,” she says immediately; she’s all business and her wand is pointed at my neck. I fall silent and still, and she murmurs, “reducto” before i have a chance to process. 

The collar shrivels and disintegrates into a hundred little pieces and it feels like some of the weight on my shoulders has left. 

“Four days, you waited,” she says. She doesn’t ask why, but she looks at me and I know she questions my judgement even if she understands why. 

“I couldn’t stand it any longer,” I say hoarsely. “I thought I could wait.”

“You shouldn’t have to wait,” she says, “with  _ that thing _ on you, I should’ve--”

“You didn’t know,” I reply. “Don’t tell Harry--not about that.”

She looks at me disapprovingly. “Maybe one day I will,” I say, “But for now--he doesn’t need to know too much. The battle’s just ended, it’s--”

“It’s complicated,” she agrees. “Fine. I’ll talk to Harry today,” she says more softly. 

“We may as well now,” I agree. “Is Weasley in this building?” I’m not enthused at the prospect of explaining what my father was responsible for, but I suppose it’s the least I can do. He won’t take it well, though; I know that. 

She nods. “Third floor--he’s sharing with his family before they Apparate out later today.” 

“Let’s get this over with, Granger,” I say. 

We part with an agreement to meet again as soon as we can. 

How badly can it go, anyway? 

I knock on his door before I plan what I’ll say, which is very unlike me. I think it’s my eagerness to get it over with. No matter how much I hate Weasley, I still think he deserves to know what happened. 

It’s a good thing I owe Granger for what happened, because that’s the only reason I’m doing this. It’s a terrifying prospect, too, because as I knock on his door, I consider that Hermione is knocking on Harry’s. I wonder if he’s still in bed, I wonder--

“‘Mione?” Comes the answer from inside the door. 

“No,” I say. “May I come in?”

He swings the door open to see for himself that it’s me. A look of casual dislike crosses his face, and he doesn’t bother hiding it. He purses his lips, and says, “Come in then. What do you want?” 

“It’s about Granger,” I say, because saying her name doesn’t really seem fair. 

“Yeah?” he asks. He doesn’t believe me. 

“She asked me to come, believe it or not.” He still looks guarded, unsure. Suddenly I wish I planned something to say, that my dislike of him hadn’t interfered with my duty to explain what happened--

“Maybe we should sit down,” I say stiffly. He can tell I’m uncomfortable, and I can tell he doesn’t mind. 

“I’m fine right here,” he says, looking me over up and down. “Malfoy, I know you’re on our side, but--”

“You don’t have to like me,” I say. “But Granger--Hermione, and I, something happened to us both and that’s why I’m here.”

“And where’s Hermione?”

“Talking to Harry on my behalf,” I confess. He still doesn’t approve of our relationship, and I couldn’t care less. Harry cares, though, and so I try to be kind. Weasley looks at me angrily when he considers that I’m talking to him on Hermione’s behalf. 

“She asked me to come because she’s having trouble talking to you,” I blurt out, “And I’m the only other person who already knows.”

“Knows what? Just spit it out, Malfoy,” he says, and he looks nervous but I don’t think he understands how bad it actually is. 

“The reason Hermione can’t look at you--can’t talk to you, easily--it’s my fault,” I say, because somehow taking the blame seems easier. “When we were captured by the Death Eaters--”

I stop talking; it’s abrupt but I can’t say it. I can’t tell anyone, let alone this stranger--this rival--standing in front of me, who looks at me as if I’m somehow less because of who I was when I was eleven. 

Ron Weasley surprises me. 

“Come on, mate,” he says. “You’re right, let’s sit down.” He leads me to a sofa, and he sits on an adjacent armchair. He’s distant but not unkind, and it’s more than a little uncanny. 

“Now you’re sitting,” he says, “I really do need to know what happened. For Hermione’s sake. Not particularly yours,” he says, with a pained smile. “I love her, and if there’s something she can’t talk to me about, well, I still need to know.”

“She cares for you a lot,” I say, feeling the need to comfort him in some way, to soften the blow. “They tortured us,” I find myself saying. “Just me, at first, but then they told me I could stop it, if I only told them to do it to her instead.”

My voice is small and squeaky and I hate how weak the words sound. “I told you, it’s my fault, she doesn’t think it is but I couldn’t stand it any longer--”

He looks at me calmly, and takes deep, long breaths. “Tell me what happened,” he says, so forcefully that I physically flinch--he looks abashed for a moment. 

“He raped her,” I say, in a voice that’s barely a whisper. Ron is silent; he brings both his hands up to his face and rubs his eyes, he runs his fingers up and down the bridge of his nose. He stands up and turns away from me, and this is why Hermione could not tell him herself. 

He turns back to me after a long minute, and says, “Who? I’m going to kill the bastard if he’s not dead already, so Malfoy, you better tell me who.”

_ It doesn’t matter who; what possible good could it do him to know? _

“I don’t know,” I say. I bite my tongue and repeat to myself: he doesn’t need to know. “He wore a mask; I’m sorry, I--”

“You should have taken it,” he says--we both know he’s unreasonable, but I recoil back into the sofa again and don’t bother to defend myself. 

“You shouldn’t have let it happen; you should have done  _ something--” _

“I know,” I say. 

“She--fuck, of course she won’t look at me,” he says, and he gazes at me with wild eyes and tousled hair and I begin to understand why Hermione cares for him. “I’ve been a git,” he says. “How can I--”

“There’s nothing you can do, Weasley,” I say. “Just, after this, tell her that I told you what happened, that you’ll give her space if she needs. She might need that,” I say pointedly. “And tell her how much you care for her, what on earth else could you do?”

He still doesn’t look at me. He’s calm but feral, and the way he stalks across the room, I know that his mind is on Hermione, and that’s okay. 

“Right,” he says distractedly. 

“Weasley,” I say. “Be patient.”

“Right,” he repeats. “I’m still angry at you.”

I roll my eyes and can’t help but let a small sneer find its way to my lips. “And Weasley?” I say. 

“Yeah,” he replies. 

“It’s not about you.” 

“Right,” he says, yet again. Not the most creative with language, this one. “If you see her, tell her where I am?”

“She knows where you are,” I say. “You might want to talk to Potter first. He could help you be less of a git; he knows both of you better.”

“Right,” he says. 

I’m about done with his repetition of the word ‘right,’ and so I stand up to leave. He sits back down in the armchair as I go, and I realize as I close the door behind me that this conversation didn’t go anywhere nearly as badly as it could have. 

I take that thought back, though, because as soon as I leave I hear a muffled, unearthly scream from the room behind me. I hope he doesn’t break anything, but I don’t consider it to be my problem if he does. Graceful as ever, I bolt up the stairs back to the room I’m staying in, only to remember that it’s where Harry is (and presumably, Hermione). I instead loiter in an adjacent bathroom, trying to listen for when they leave. 

I’d take talking to one of them, but not both of them. Not just now. Besides, someone needs to warn Granger about Weasley’s reaction. 

It hits me suddenly that I don’t want to see Harry, not right now. I don’t want him to pity me--but at the same time I want his acceptance; I want the sort of embrace that makes me feel safe and loved and not held down. I want to be able to run if I need to. 

Granger leaves Harry’s room, and I step out of the bathroom to try to intercept her. She sees me, gets out her wand, and clamps her hand around my wrist--and Apparates. 

It’s unpleasant, especially when one isn’t expecting it. But we arrive at the Apparition point of Diagon Alley, and she turns to me and says, “I thought we’d get you a wand before we have to talk to them again.” 

“Warn me next time, Granger,” I say, and I’m a little furious. She should know better than to scare the hell out of me-- she’s supposed to be the one that’s thinking straight. 

“I will next time,” she says flippantly, “but you won’t need me to Side-Along you next time because you’ll have your own wand. Let’s go.” 

“Did it go okay?” I ask, even though she won’t look at me properly. 

“I told him to talk to Ron,” she says dismissively. 

“I told Ron to talk to Harry,” I admit. 

“Good,” she says softly. She still clings to my arm, and she leads me to Ollivander’s. 

She stomps in the direction of Ollivander's; I follow. I've no idea if the store will be open already--Ollivander himself was taken away by the Death Eaters a while ago for supposed collusion to hide the Elder Wand. But if he's back, I hope he can forgive what's been done to him. I really need a wand. 

We arrive on the doorstep and the shop is dark. I follow Hermione inside anyway, though--the shop is normally dark. 

“Ms. Granger,” comes a voice from the back of the room. I don’t even know how he can see who’s there, but he apparently manages. 

“Mr. Ollivander,” says Hermione, and she sounds genuinely excited to see him. She rummages in her coat pocket and finds a crumpled letter. “Luna said to give this to you.”

“How is the dear girl?” he replies, coming closer to the light (and to Hermione, to take his letter). 

“Better now,” says Hermione. “We’re putting the pieces back together.”

Ollivander nods, and turns to me. “Mr. Malfoy,” he says. “It seems only yesterday you were in here with your father to get your wand.” A look of distaste crosses my face involuntarily, and I’m not sure if he notices that. He continues, “Hawthorne, 10’’, unicorn hair, if I remember correctly?” 

I reach out to shake his hand. “Uncanny, your memory is,” I say. 

“Just for wands, young man. Wands and faces,” he says. “I presume you’re looking to get a replacement. 

“Yes, Sir,” I say. I expect him to say something else, but he’s already on his moving ladder, zooming to the back of his tiny store. He crashes back towards the front a moment later, and he hands me an old, dilapidated box and says, “Give it a wave, then.”

I feel eleven, again, dressed in robes that brush against the floor and hair that’s slicked back against my head. Everything was so intense, then, so hopeful and  _ I thought I knew everything.  _ I want to go back in time and tell myself what lies ahead and how to be a better person. I want to give my adolescent self memories to cling onto in his darkest moments--

I give the wand a wave and it neither causes an explosion nor bathes the room in warm light. It emits a toxic fog, and Hermione jumps back almost as quickly as I drop the wand and stuff it back in it’s box. 

Ollivander mumbles to himself, and says aloud, “Same heart, I think, but something else entirely.” 

He disappears back to the recesses of the shop, and comes back with an even smaller box. “Too emotional for hazel, I think,” he says. “Try this one.” 

I pick it up, and it feels as if it molds to me. I know it is mine before I wave it and before it emits a warm light.

“Interesting,” he says, and I smile slightly because  _ I have a wand again, and Ollivander hasn’t changed a bit.  _ He says interesting every time, my mother said. 

“Ash,” he says, “9’’. Unicorn hair core. A most peculiar combination. Obstinate at the best of times, I think,” he adds, and I barely notice because I’m marveling at the piece of wood in my hands. Things will get better, I think. 

“Not a better match since Ms. Lovegood’s wand, I think,” he says, and I get the impression that he’s not even speaking to us anymore. I never realized he was close with Luna--I’ll ask her about it, if I can bring myself to. 

Hermione gives him the price of the wand--it’s good one of us came prepared--and she promises me that I’ll pay her back. I go along with it; she thanks Ollivander and we leave. 

Know-it-all Hermione is back, because in the space that it takes us to leave the shop, she tells me, “I’ve been reading up on wandlore. Ash makes a lot of sense; the first ever ash wand was made with unicorn hair core, and it’s supposed to be one of the most loyal wand types. Very stubborn, very immovable.”

“Why does that make sense?” I interrupt. 

“Draco, have you ever  _ met  _ you?” says Hermione, “you’re possibly the most stubborn person I know. Besides, ash works best for people who are stubborn yet not arrogant.” She recounts this fact as if she’s reading a textbook aloud. 

“It won’t work for me, then,” I mutter. “I’m definitely arrogant.”

Hermione ignores me and continues, “It means you’re principled, courageous, and intelligent. Although I don’t know about the last one.” A strange expression crosses her face. “I think the one thing that best suits is that ash wands abhor crassness.”

I nod my head appreciatively. “I’m definitely not crass.” 

It takes a considerable amount of self-control to not take out my wand and try out a few simple spells on the way back to the Apparition point. I don’t, mostly because I’d prefer to test it out alone, where no one will comment if my wand decides put up a fuss over how I cast. 

Even having the wand with me makes me feel better, though; energy flows back into my limbs and my magic no longer feels so impatient and restless. It has a conduit, now, and I can’t help but feel a little excited. 

It occurs to me that part of this feeling is because I spoke about what happened to Weasley. Even if it was to him--it helped, and I realize suddenly that we made a terrible mistake in leaving Harry and Ron alone in the house so soon after what we admitted. 

“They need to talk to us,” I say after a long silence on our route. We’re more than half-way back, but I feel the urge to run. “Come on,” I say, speeding up, and anticipation builds in my gut. 

There is hesitation in Granger’s eyes, but she smiles at me anyway. “You go first,” she says as we reach the spot. I’m too blinded by my desire to get back to Harry and the house that I barely notice when she doesn’t Apparate right after me. I land on the grounds outside of the house without her. 

My eagerness bids me not to wait for her, and I enter through the door. The hinge creaks slightly, and the silent house suddenly seems immense and fearsome, but maybe that’s just the enormity of my task. 

I step carefully to the stairwell, and speed up. I skip every other step until I find myself on the third floor, directly outside the room he’s been staying in. Immediately, I feel sick to my stomach, for I realize that he has had to listen to what’s happened to me without my presence, without any reassurance--

I knock twice, and the expression on Harry’s face when he opens the door makes me think that he had assumed it to be Hermione. When he sees me instead, he looks worried but not upset, and I’m immediately a little baffled. 

“Have you seen Hermione?” he asks, “She said she had something to tell me but before she did, she just--left. I can’t find her, so I think maybe she apparated.” 

_ Oh no.  _ The sinking feeling in my stomach expands and multiplies.  _ She never told him--she just--what’s going through her mind?  _ She doesn’t seem like the sort of person that would trick me into telling Ron, and then not hold up her end. Her capability must be a guise--

“She’s in Diagon Alley,” I say numbly. “She took me to get a wand.” I hold it up with my right hand, as if I feel the need to prove myself. 

“Is she okay?” asks Harry, pushing up his glasses. “She seemed--not okay, I guess.” 

“I don’t know,” I reply, and it’s true. “She might have apparated somewhere else--” 

“We should find her,” says Harry, “she could be--”; he’s already trying to walk past me, to the door. 

“Wait,” I say, and there’s more power to my voice than there has been in a while. I don’t feel quite so small any longer. “She’ll come back when she wants to.” 

“I need to find out what she was going to say,” he says. He’s not thinking straight; he’s worried because he’s never seen Hermione like this. 

“You should hear it from me, instead,” I say, and the all-encompassing fear comes back. 

“Why?” he asks, because he hasn’t put together the pieces yet. 

“Sit down,” I reply, and my voice is calm and gentle and forceful in all the ways I mean it to be. He follows my lead, and sits on the side of the bed next to me. I give his hand a small squeeze, and then withdraw entirely away from him. “I asked Hermione to tell you what happened, and she asked me to tell Ron. She never explained like she was supposed to, though, so--”

I pretend it’s not Harry I’m talking to. I explain what happened clinically, without excess detail or the emotion. I explain the pain, but not the vulnerability. Not the rawness, not shivering alone in the dark wishing that anyone else was there in my stead. 

He listens and nods; he knows that I don’t need his pity, only his understanding and patience. 

I explain that something terrible happened to Hermione, too, and how it was my fault. This is the first time he shakes his head. 

“No,” he says, and his green eyes are filled to the brim with anger, “You did the best you could in a foul situation, and you put your life on the line for your friends, and how could you say it’s your fault--that doesn’t make any--”

_ It was my father, Harry. My father.  _

I bite my tongue. “You don’t understand,” I say formally, “I told them to do it to her, instead. It’s my responsibility.” 

“No,” he repeats, “You did so well, Draco, you can’t know that but I know you, and you’re brilliant, and brave, and noble, and I don’t know why you can’t see that--”

I relax my muscles and try to accept, or at least tolerate, what he’s saying. “You don’t need to feed my ego, love,” I say, because nothing else I’m thinking seems adequate. “It’s quite well-fed.” 

“Apparently not,” says Harry, and he has a soft smile on his face. He reaches his hand towards me, so patiently, and it still takes everything I have to not back away. “May I?” he says. 

He sees me nod uncertainly, and touches the side of my face with his fingertips. It feels like electricity, like comfort, like warmth, all at once and I remember that before all of this happened, we really did fit each other perfectly.  _ Back when I was afraid, but relatively untraumatized. And Harry doesn’t even know most of the things that happened back then, either-- _

“You’re pretty special,” he says, “and I’m here for you, no matter what the future holds. What happened--it wasn’t your fault. Not in the least.” 

I reach up and grab his hand, and before I can think about it, the words are already slipping out of my mouth: “I like being around you.” It sounds like they aren’t my words, even though they’re so very true, “but I’m not sure I can--” 

I think he understands what I’m trying to say, and he makes a sound to cut me off. “Don’t worry about that. Or anything else,” he says. “I’m here. Whenever you need me. However you need me. We all have healing to do,” he says. 

“Okay,” I say, because I really, really, really want to believe him. “I don’t know when--”

“I don’t need to know when,” he says. “I think I’ve been pretty clear about the fact that I love you.” 

“Love and compatibility are different things,” I say, even though I know I’m being unfair. “What if it doesn’t  _ get  _ any better, what if we’re a year down the road, and--”

“I know they’re different,” he says, “Just ask Ginny. Or Cho. I loved them,” and I know he adds the last part just to prove that he knows what he’s doing. I smile slightly. He’s so earnest, he tries so hard--I hope this works more than anything. 

“Things can’t just go back to normal, Harry,” I say, “Not for either of us.”

“I know,” he replies, “we’ll figure it out. But we’re both alive, and two weeks ago if you told me we’d have reached the end of the war both alive--”

“This is what luck looks like,” I say sardonically, but really, he’s right. The fact that we’re both alive--that’s beyond lucky, it’s remarkable. 

We sit there for a while longer, before Harry stretches out on his back like a cat and yawns. “Tomorrow, I’m going back to Hogwarts to help the professors rebuild,” he says suddenly. “Do you have any place to go?” 

I shake my head. 

“Come with me,” he says, “Professor McGonagall said she’d set up an eighth year those who want to come back. I don’t know if--but it seems like a good idea.” 

“Okay,” I say, and I remember how much I miss Hogwarts. It’s of a better time--a time when things were petty and childish and hopeful. I miss my professors. I miss Professor Snape--he was cruel and petty and snarky and honorable and he was always kind to me. There were contradictions to his character that I will never mind, because he gave me someone to emulate when my other role models were Death Eaters. 

“It won’t be the same,” I caution. 

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do anymore,” Harry admits. “My entire life’s been about trying to not let Voldemort kill me. And now--”

“One day at a time, I’d imagine,” I say. I don’t want to think about what comes next either. Will my parents be brought up with charges? Will my father be sent to Azkaban? Will the Dark Mark on my arm make me a pariah? Will I ever get over this? Will there be a time when I can let Harry touch me again? 

“I could teach you how to cast a Patronus,” he says, almost as if he realizes my thoughts. “Or continue teaching you, I guess.”

“Why?” I say, and can’t help adding snarkily, “Think I’ll have better memories now?”

He scoffs at me. “I was so worried about you I forgot you can be insufferable,” he replies. 

“Glad to help you remember,” I return. 

“It’s late,” he smiles at me. “We should sleep.” 

“Should we find Hermione first?” I ask, remembering that I haven’t seen her since Diagon Alley. 

“I’ll find her,” says Harry. “And I suppose I should see if Ron’s okay, too.” I nod at him, and he wishes me goodnight. It feels nice, and calm, and when he leaves I realize that I don’t feel quite so hopeless anymore. So much has changed so quickly, yet-- 

Things can still get better. We’re lucky to be alive, after all, even though, in the dark twilight, I’m not sure if I should be. 

In the morning, Harry tells me that Hermione is going home with the Weasleys for a while. There are so many people that no longer have homes to return to. And so many homes that are missing their sons and daughters. 

Harry tells me that he spent the night Apparating, finding people to take back to Hogwarts with him; although it is the summer, he is all too aware that Hogwarts needs its students just as much as they need Hogwarts. 

Luna and Neville and Astoria will come with us, and Harry tells me that when Ginny’s sure the family’s okay, she’ll come, too. We apparate before breakfast--which is normally a good idea anyway, considering how nauseating the experience really is--and arrive just outside of Hogwarts’s main warding. 

Professor McGonagall, now Headmistress, meets us outside, and she hugs Harry very tightly. I don’t remember what’s spoken, but it feels as if there is a weight on all of us. There’s nothing to do except rebuild, of course. But the bodies of the people we’ve lost, and the wounds of the war are a heavy presence. 

The war is won, but there is nothing to celebrate. 

We stay in the prefects’ dormitories, because there are no prefects to be found. Well, I suppose I’m technically one, but that seems as if it were a lifetime ago. 

Harry tells me what he saw in Snape’s memories that day. The weight on my shoulders feels even heavier, because Snape never had a chance to see which lives he saved. And I cry for his death the first time today because I never got the chance to thank him. 

I lean up against Harry as I cry, because I don’t want to have to ask for his comfort and I normally would reject it if he initiated it.. 

There’s a dark cloud over Hogwarts; the blood of battle is still wet. The youngest of the fallen is twelve. The oldest is Dumbledore; I think he was one hundred and twenty-seven. 

The students that have come back to rebuild stay close to each other. It doesn’t matter anymore what houses we belong to, or what side of the war we fought on. I thought it would matter, but it doesn’t. We lie awake in the same dormitory because closeness gives us all comfort. 

The next morning, we get to work. There are mountains of rubble throughout the school; there are wards to be replaced. And someone really must get to the Room of Requirement--it has to be repaired after one of my moronic ex-compatriots set it ablaze with fiendfyre. Harry and I and the other students mostly work on rebuilding. No one feels up to complex magic. 

When the day's work is over, most of us are exhausted, but thankful for the distraction. I certainly am. It’s funny how physical movement can feel a lot like moving forward. 

Harry and I walk down the hall together in search of an empty classroom. “Are you sure tonight’s good?” he checks with me. I think it’s been three times, by now, and he’s just being polite. He wants to get back to practicing Defense Against the Dark Arts; it’s where he feels the most at home. (Well, apart from Quidditch, and I’m confident that Harry’s always wanted to pursue something more as a career, no matter how much he enjoys flying). 

“Of course,” I reply, “but don’t expect too much. Conjuring happy memories, well.” I shrug. “Even without what happened, it’s hard for anyone to be happy.” Sometimes I think all my happy memories have been used up, anyway, but I don’t say that part. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he says. “Most of the memories I use aren’t entirely happy anyway,” he admits. 

“Really?” he’s piqued my interest. 

“The memory that works the best is my mother singing to me,” he says, “I was barely a year old, I’m not even sure how I remember it.”

“Wizards have better memories than muggles,” I remind him.  _ But it’s incredible in a sad sort of way,  _ I think.  _ Incredible that after all this time, it’s the one thing he can’t have that gives him a reason to live. The one thing he’s spent seventeen years chasing--  _

“I suppose so,” he says. “What makes it powerful is that I’ll never hear it again. But it’s beautiful anyway, it’s hopeful, it’s--I dunno, there’s just something about it.” 

“So it’s about strength of emotion,” I analyze, “not pure unadulterated joy. It’s more complicated than that. It’s about what reminds you why you bother living.” 

“Exactly,” says Harry, and he has a look on his face that suggests he’s never thought of that before, at least not in those words. “So you want to think about all the reasons that you have to live, and let it fill you--”

I chuckle. 

Losing momentum, he says, “Really Malfoy? Are you five?”

“Eighteen, now, in three weeks,” I say. 

“You’re still a git,” he says. 

“I know,” I reply, but I’m still laughing because it feels nice to let go. 

He glares at me very professorially, and continues launching into his explanation. “You want to feel relaxed but strong, and focus on those memories when you cast. And the wand motion should be like you’re holding forward a torch.” He gestures with his wand to show me how, and I think suddenly that he’d be a very good DADA teacher. 

“So,” he continues, stepping back away from me, “Give it a go then.”

I grasp my wand lightly in my right hand, and let the memories of Pansy and my cello fill me, memories of Astoria singing and of my unflinching desire to live, even when I was in the basement. I think of strength flowing through me, of the courage I forgot I had. 

“Expecto Patronum!” I say, and a translucent mist pours from my wand and agglutinates in front of me. It’s a shape, definitely, but it’s hardly corporeal. Disappointed, I let the mist disintegrate, and it sinks to the ground. I look towards Harry and there’s so much vicarious excitement in his eyes that I almost laugh. 

“That was great,” he says, and his expression is all but glowing. “That’s  the closest you’ve gotten--” 

His joy is contagious and I am enthused by it; I cut him off with another attempt at the spell. 

_ A strong sense of what happiness means to me, that’s what’s important. _

I know before the spell leaves my wand that this time, I’ve got it. My patronus swells from my wand and floats into midair, and I feel like I’m gliding, going to take off--

“Of course,” says Harry, and his grin his enormous and beautiful. “Of course it’s a swan, you elitist, prissy--”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” I say, “my patronus is lovely.” I’m guiding it through the classroom, and soars and flaps its wings and glides so brilliantly. I’m overflowing with joy. 

I end the spell eventually, and wrap my arms around Harry. “It worked,” I say, still a little surprised and proud of myself. “We did it.” 

“You,” says Harry. “You were brilliant.” He hugs me back and for a few moments, his touch is welcome and appreciated, and I feel normal. 

He lets go long before I feel uncomfortable, but we hold hands all the way back to the dormitories. His presence is calming and kind, and I don’t tell him so--but I don’t bother to hide it, either, and I brush up against his side affectionately as we walk. 

“You’re like a cat,” he says, and I know exactly what he means, and I grin. I’ll hold on to the moment as long as I can. 

“Sleep next to me?” I ask. 

“Of course,” he says, and I can tell he’s secretly proud for winning back my trust slowly or something. It’s a bit ridiculous, but I certainly don’t mind. 

Even though I’m taller, I sleep with my head nestled against his shoulder. There’s no place I’d rather be. 

I fall asleep listening to his heartbeat, but the sound dissolves quickly. 

_ There is no description of it. I would tear my own eyes out if only to make it stop, but I have no control over my fingers. I shudder, and scream, because I realize that I mustn’t remember I can escape this. _

_ It isn’t about being brave, it’s about doing what’s necessary. Granger is too important to be ruined by this. Astoria must be protected.  _

_ My screams fade to mumbles and I can’t think coherently. The pain does not end and does not promise to end, and my muscles grow overtired from clenching. I am flat on the floor and I can’t even feel the pain from biting my cheek.  _

“Draco.” There is a hand on my arm and it’s shaking me and I panic and shove away from it. I hear a thud as whatever was touching me hits the floor. As I wake up, realization dawns on me and I peer over the edge of the bed. 

_ This is embarrassing, _ I think. “Sorry,” I mumble, and Harry gives me a pained grin back. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “We’ve all had our share.” 

It’s true. On the few occasions that we’ve slept together, normally it’s Harry that has nightmares. I reach a hand over the side of the bed and lift Harry up next to me. 

“Sorry,” I repeat. With a wry grin, I add, “It wasn’t even the bad part yet.” 

“You’re a little scary sometimes,” he says. 

“Just don’t ask me to talk about it,” I warn him. 

“Okay, but if you’d like to, I could--” I cut him off with a sharp look. 

“I’m a Malfoy,” I say lightly, “and to quote the immortal words of Severus Snape, ‘The Malfoys are so emotionally repressed it comes as no surprise that you’re good at Occlumency.’” 

“Right. Which would be the point of talking about it,” he says, as I suspected he would. 

I shush him, and place his arm over my shoulder.  _ May as well get used to it.  _ “Go back to sleep, Harry,” I say. 

“I’m glad you know what you want, I guess,” he says, still awkwardly holding his arm exactly where I placed it. 

“Of course I know what I want,” I say, “I’m a Slytherin.”

“Don’t remind me,” he responds, and we settle back to sleep. 

We eat breakfast with the other students. A few minutes later, Professor McGonagall comes into the Great Hall, flanked by other professors. 

“Mr. Potter,” she says, approaching Harry from the right. “Ms. Granger arrived by floo early this morning, and she asked to speak to you first. She’s in my office, so go on ahead.” 

Harry exchanges a look with me--it’s strange that Hermione would come without Ron, unless--

Of course, Harry rushes off to the Professor’s office. In the meantime, the morning post flies in through the windows (some open, some broken). I get two letters. One is from my mother, and the other is from Pansy. 

My mother’s I set on fire without reading. 

Pansy’s, I open. 

_ Draco,  _

_ I’m so glad you’re alive. I won’t apologize, that’s not what our friendship’s like. But I would like to come back to Hogwarts for eighth year. I’ve heard you’re there, now, rebuilding? I’d like to come back and help, if you think I could. If you’d want me there.  _

_ -Pans _

I reply immediately. 

_ Please come.  I wouldn’t accept your apology, that’s not what our friendship’s like. I heard you came back with reinforcements. I’m proud of you Pans. Come quickly! _

_ -Draco _

I send the letter back with the owl. I’m glad she’s coming. I’ll have a friend--a friend that understands what it’s like to have to go against your own family. Astoria’s like that a bit, but--it’s different. Although I’m not entirely sure how. 

Harry’s still not back by the time I finish breakfast, so I set out with Luna to continue the daunting process of fixing the Ravenclaw tower. Astoria and Neville and her have been working together previously, and have become close friends--but Luna’s kind to everyone. She can forget so easily the years I spent tormenting her and people like her (most notably, Neville). I can’t, and I don’t think Neville does either. 

On our trek up to the tower, I ask her how she knows Ollivander so well. 

She replies lightly, “A Death Eater named Dolohov kidnapped me so they could get control of my father. Ollivander was in the basement with me and quite a few others. We rather bonded over the similarity of our wands. He has a blackthorne one, too. Supposed to be quirky.”

“That suits you,” I say, and I try not to think about whose basement she was locked in. 

“It was rather nice,” she says. “It’s rare when people like to talk to me.”

“I don’t see why,” I say a little obstinately. 

“Well, Hermione’s been nice to me since sixth year,” she says rather fondly. “And Ginny and Neville are always kind.” 

“They are,” I say sincerely. I don’t take the opportunity to apologize, although I’d like to. It would seem trite, after everything we’ve all been through. “I’d like to get to know them if I ever get the chance.” 

“Neville’s big on second chances,” she says, “Especially with people who helped overthrow You-Know-Who.”

I don’t know what to say. “I was a right git to him first year. Well, more than first year,” I admit, sighing. 

“I know,” says Luna. “He used to complain about you all the time. And I’d always tell him how terrible it must be to have your parents.” 

She doesn’t mean it as an insult, but I physically flinch at the recollection of my father. “Yes,” I say, “well, my parents caused quite a few people pain.” 

“I suppose they have,” says Luna. “You chose the right side, though,” she adds, and we get to work on the tower. 

It’s pleasant, working side by side with her, because she has the strangest ideas that work remarkably well. She doesn’t just discard the broken stones; she uses them to make new ones. I’ve never seen someone work quite like her. 

We take a break for lunch and tea, and still, Harry has not returned. I really do hope Hermione’s okay. She deserves better, after everything--

_ I wish I didn’t let her go through that.  _

But wishing changes nothing, and while trying to rewrite the past is something that I’m remarkably good at, some things are better left there. 

After I eat, I write a quick note to inform Professor McGonagall that Pansy would like to help with the rebuilding, and since I don’t get a response from her, I assume she has no misgivings on the issue. 

Pansy arrives later that afternoon, and for Pansy, she looks bedraggled. Her hair is combed back in her signature style, but it looks greasy and unwashed. She’s let it go without trimming for a while, too; her bangs cover her eyebrows and the rest of it reaches a little past her chin. From her left hand dangles her violin case, and she is grasping her trunk with her right. She looks very unhappy. 

“I was disowned,” she explains as I carry her trunk up to the dormitories. “Three days before the battle. This is all I could carry with me, so it’s all I have left.” 

Pansy brings a whole new meaning to the saying ‘stiff upper lip.’ 

“We’ll figure it out,” I say, even though I’m not actually sure. I don’t mention what’s happened with my family, or that my mother’s been sending me letters I can’t bring myself to open. It’s strange, but sometimes I hate her even more than my father--because she was supposed to be better than him, and she let all this happen anyway. 

“Your mother wrote me,” Pansy says, and I think that’s even stranger. I know my mother, and Narcissa Malfoy is hardly one to air her family difficulties to those outside the clan. And no matter how much the Malfoys and the Parkinsons both had hoped for Pansy and me to marry, my mother would hardly consider Pansy family. 

“She asked me to tell you some things,” Pansy continues, but seeing the look on my face, she adds, “but I won’t unless you want to hear it. So whenever you want.” My curiosity is not enough to override the disgust at talking to or about my family ever again. 

“Thanks,” I say, “Maybe some time.” I lead the way up the stairs and put her things on an empty bed next to mine--Harry’s is to my right, and mine was previously up against a wall, but Hogwarts has a way of knowing what is needed. Sometimes I think it’s less of a castle and more of a creature. 

I take out my wand and charm the duvet on Pansy’s bed to turn a deep green matching mine.

“See?” I say. “Welcome home.”

I expect maybe a wry smile, but instead she throws herself towards me and sobs on my shoulder. At first I’m not sure what to do, but I wrap her in my arms anyway and mumble vague reassurances. 

“We’ll make a future, Pansy,” I tell her, even though I’ve no idea how. “You can do anything you want; you don’t need your family. This generation can start over; we don’t have to remake our parents’ mistakes.” I almost believe that. 

“We already have,” says Pansy, and she draws back so she can show me her arm. “We’ve already been Marked, and that will never go away.” 

“I know,” I say, “But we didn’t let that stop us.” 

“The war was the easy part,” she says, and it’s true. It was easy to be children and consider what and who we’d die for. It all seemed very grand. Now the war’s over, and we have to decide to live even if the old reasons don’t exist anymore. Somehow, that seems so much more permanent. I wonder how it must feel to Harry, who  _ knew  _ he wouldn’t survive the war. And yet here we all are.

How does one go about living life when dying heroically (or not so heroically, as it was for Pansy and me) is all you’ve been prepared for? 

“I think,” I say, “That we’ve just got to figure out what it all means.”

She holds onto me, still, but her sniffs are subsiding. 

“I know you’re gay,” she says into my shoulder, “but if you ever change your mind--”

Yep, Pansy’s back. Thank goodness, I deal terribly with her being upset. 

“You’ll be the first to know,” I reply playfully. My smile is fragile but still there _.  _

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she says bluntly. “Now help me unpack.” 

“Yes Ma’am,” I reply, and I let her go. She ends up spending most of her time sitting on the bed directing me where to put her belongings, but I don’t mind. 

After we’re mostly done, I sit down next to her and my expression turns more serious. “Pansy,” I begin. 

She cuts me off almost immediately, “If this is going to be some sappy shit about how much you care for me, I’ll gouge my eyes out,” she says. 

“I’ll hold you to that, then,” I say. “But I mean this, so shut up and listen. Saying no in the dungeon at first was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do, and let’s face it, you’ve done some stupid shit.”

“I know,” she says dryly. “I’ve learned my lesson rather effectively.” 

“But,” I add, “You kept me alive. You reminded me to keep living. And I don’t care what Bellatrix made you do, you’re my closest friend. Whatever comes next, I’m on your side.” 

“How romantic,” she says sarcastically. But I know it means a lot to her anyway. “Maybe you’d like a signed photograph of me that you can kiss goodnight for the rest of your life.”

“I’d like that,” I say. “And I’ll be extra careful to put it facedown when I’m fucking Harry.” 

She turns her nose up. “Lovely as always, Draco, thanks for that mental image.” 

“I’ve missed you, too,” I say. “Now go shower or something because there’s no way I’m eating dinner next to you if you smell like that.” 

She sticks out her tongue at me. It’s clear who won that altercation.  _ Because _ yes, Pansy and I keep score--that’s the fundamental characteristic of our friendship.

I go in search of Harry, because I hope whatever happened with Hermione will have resolved itself by now. I want to see if she’s okay, but I also need to talk to Harry to ask him, among other things, about the whereabouts of my cello. 

I’m halfway to McGonagall’s office when I almost walk straight into him--Harry, that is. His hair is tousled and his face flushed. I wonder how he can even see out of those glasses of his, they’re so smudged. 

“I was just looking for you,” he says. 

“How’s Hermione?” I ask. His expression shifts from surprised to concerned. 

“I’m worried,” he admits. “She’s not giving herself time to heal, or mourn or anything. She thinks she can just choose not to feel, and that she can avoid thinking about what happened and who we lost if she keeps herself busy enough.” He sighs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I’ve seen her panic before, but not like this. Even during the battle--” he looks uncomfortable, “she was aiming to kill. Normally she thinks anyone can be rehabilitated if they’re given a chance. But--” He rubs his temples. “It’s bad. Ron is taking her to Australia to fix her parents memory, but--” 

I interrupt, “Her parents’ memory? What happened?”

“Right,” says Harry. He looks a bit discombobulated. “You wouldn't know, of course. Hermione removed herself from her parents’ memories just before Christmas, and convinced them to move to Australia so they wouldn’t be targeted by Voldemort. She’s not sure she can undo the spell; it’s pretty complicated magic.” 

“Hermione’s pretty scary,” I note. “Especially when there’s nothing to hold her back.” 

“Yeah, I know,” says Harry. “Imagine what would have happened if she’d have been the Girl-Who-Lived. Voldemort wouldn’t have stood a chance.” 

“True,” I agree, because it doesn’t take a genius to notice that Granger has a raw magical talent that eludes most pureblood witches and wizards--coupled with a drive to succeed that exceeds that of the most ambitious Slytherins. 

“I’m just scared she’ll go and do something rash,” he says, “which is ironic, considering she’s the one that’s been keeping me straight all these years.” 

“Hardly straight,” I mumble, and he barely glances up at my attempt at humor. 

“And Ron, I guess,” he adds. “Well, it’s a mess. He’s just been following her around like a lost puppy. He’s always been good at being there, especially for her, but he’s in mourning too and it’s just really complicated. Usually it’s Hermione who’s good at communication and this time she’s just shut down completely.” 

“She talked to you,” I say. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Mostly because I let her yell and pace around and hex things and sometimes me.” 

“What?” I say, because I genuinely think that’s a little extreme. 

“She’s got a lot to work through,” Harry defends, “and I’ll be there during and after. Not much else I can do,” he admits. He shrugs and considers, “She’d do the same for me.” 

“And you think it’s a good idea to let her and Ron go to Australia alone?”

“It’s not really my choice,” he says, “But not exactly. I’d feel much better if I went, too.” 

“I think you’re right,” I say, and he looks up at me as if he’s mildly surprised. “What? What did you think I’d say?” 

“Well, I don’t want to leave you alone, either,” he says. 

“Potter. I hardly need you watching over me. I’m perfectly capable of not dying all by myself. Besides, Pansy came in this afternoon.” 

“Parkinson?” he asks, and I remember that he has no reason to like her. 

“I’ll have you know that Pansy and I are fast friends,” I say, putting my chin up. “Astoria, Pansy, and I have always been close.” 

He looks unconvinced. 

“Harry, I’m not okay,” I say. “But you can’t help me.” I sigh a little, because it pains me to admit it. “I’ll handle what I can, and when I need something, I’ll ask. Trust me to do that. I--”  _ Why is saying the ‘L’ word so difficult now?-- _ “I care for you, very deeply, but I need to find a reason to live all by my damn self.” 

“I like being around you,” he says, “I don’t want--” 

“You need to feel needed, Potter,” I say, and he looks a little hurt. I soften my tone. “And believe me, I’d love to just cling onto you and pretend I don’t need anything else. But then when we break up--” 

“If,” he interrupts. 

“If,” I agree, “Then we’d be in the same damn place we are now, having to figure out what to do with ourselves. So I’d like to find out things for myself. You’re definitely a part of that, but you can leave me alone, too. Be with your friends, and I’ll be with mine. Let’s have fun together. We’ll go on dates and we can pretend our relationship is playful and innocent and fun like it was before.”

“But the war--” he says, “it changed everything. I don’t know where to go. I always thought that there wouldn’t be an after. It’s like seeing over the edge of the cliff; that’s what the future’s like.” 

“Yes,” I say. “It’s always been wide.” 

“I miss having someone that knows what I have to do next.” 

“Don’t we all,” I say dryly, “especially when that person’s stellar advice is ‘Act like you’re willing to die for the Dark Lord, Draco, or else he’ll kill you, me, and your mother. Good luck.’” 

I mean it as a joke, but I know immediately that I’ve gone a little far. 

“Honestly, Draco,” he snaps. 

“It’s not my fault we’ve had different experiences,” I say coyly. I can’t help but smirk a little. 

“Sod off,” he replies, but he’s smiling, too--a little small thing that plays on his lips. “At least your mentor wasn’t training you to get killed.” 

“If you think  _ you _ had it bad,--” I continue. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “I thought I was competitive,” he says. “Trust you to make suffering into a damn competition.” 

“If it was, I’d win,” I say confidently. He looks a little pained, and I regret my comment. Dark humor is how I cope. Dark humor and a steadfast refusal to betray any sort of emotion. 

“One day--” he says, “I’d like to hear what happened to you. I know you only--” 

“Not today,” I say firmly. “I’ll sit on my feelings for as long as I damn well please.” 

He shakes his head at me, and I add. “Let’s put it this way. If I can survive that, I can survive anything.” 

“I believe you,” he says, and he holds my hand gently as we walk to the Great Hall in companionable silence. We sit with the others at dinner, and no one fights. I think it’s rather an accomplishment. 

That night, Harry leaves with Hermione and Ron to Australia. I kiss him goodbye on the cheek and his smile glows. I look at his face for a long time and I think I’ve never seen anything as bright as his eyes. 

Astoria, Pansy, and I each take a long time to fall asleep that night. Everything feels different, and it really is. We stare at each other silently, with pale eyes. The only light is moonlight. 

“That’s it,” says Pansy finally. “Move over you lump.” I do as requested, and she squeezes in next to me. She fidgets, and seems to feel that the bed isn’t quite big enough. Then, Astoria gets up, too, and she’s looking at both of us with a demanding mien. 

Pansy crawls off my bed grumbling and transfigures the bed into something larger. “Should last a while,” she mumbles, and crawls back in. “Come on Astoria,” she adds, beckoning. Astoria jumps onto the bed, in between us. 

I wonder if I have any say in this. 

“Play with my hair, Draco,” insists Astoria. Apparently I don’t. What kind of monster could say no? Her hair is long and dark and stands out against her pale face; it’s always been fun to play with. 

Pansy comments that we’re the perfect picture of a family pretending to be happy twenty years after a poorly arranged marriage, and we all chuckle. 

Astoria falls asleep first, and then Pansy. Then it is just me, lying awake and trying to remember that I’m safe, here. My fingers are still intertwined in Astoria’s hair, and it feels peaceful. I’m still not sure if I should believe it’s real. Maybe I’ll wake up and find myself back in the basement. Maybe it’s just a trick of Bellatrix’s, to make me think I’m safe, and then I’ll wake up--

Pansy snores prodigiously and I smile a little. Bellatrix couldn’t imagine that. 

Eventually, I drift off to sleep. 

I wake up because my shoulder is almost completely off the bed, and Astoria’s head is on my chest. Pansy is squashed up against Astoria’s other side, and I’m pretty much stuck. I groan slightly and push Astoria off me so I can get up and shower. Neither of them wake up. 

I stumble into the adjacent washrooms, and for the first time since I’m back, I really look at my reflection in the mirror. There’s bruising around my neck that I haven’t bothered to heal fully. The bite near my collarbone is mostly healed, but I think it will scar. There are dark circles underneath my eyes, and my hair is messy. Considering everything, I think I look pretty good. 

After just a few minutes, I stop, because as much as admiring myself strokes my ego, it also is an unpleasant reminder that I no longer look the same. There are pieces of me--

It doesn’t matter. It’s easier to stop thinking, and so I drain out the voices and the pictures in my head and I focus all my energy on drawing a bath. 

I’m glad I have the extra time, this morning, because it lets me consider simpler things. Maybe I’ll ask Pansy today what my mother wants her to tell me. I’ll write Harry, and decide later whether or not I’ll send it. I’ll wash my clothes--now that most of the house elves have left, there are certain chores left to us. Apart from that, I’ll show Pansy what we’re doing on the Ravenclaw tower. 

I try a set of breathing exercises that Astoria’s shown me. I wouldn’t say they work, but they don’t hurt either. 

Eventually, once I’m clean and suitably restless, I summon my clothes and towel and emerge from the bath. I dress quickly in my signature clothes (because honestly, everyone looks better in a blazer), and go to get breakfast. 

There’s toast, and I eat slowly, waiting for the mail to come. Pansy slips into the Great Hall and sits beside me, yawning. 

“Sleep well?” I ask, only a little snarkily. I’m not very good at being civil before midday. 

“Very,” she says, ignoring my intonation. We turn our attention towards the ceiling, because two owls come soaring through the window. One of them drops a small stack of letters beside me and perches behind my plate, making small guttural noises. I sigh a bit and hand him some toast, He looks at me in disdain. 

I give him a Knut. He flies off; Pansy laughs at me. “That didn’t work very well, did it? Trying to scam him. Who’d you get letters from?” 

I shuffle through them. One’s just the Daily Prophet, and I ignore it. The next is from Harry, that says simply in his messy script, “Arrived in Australia! I’ll keep you updated. Love, H.” 

“Cute,” she says, reading over my shoulder. Her face suggests she thinks it’s anything but. 

“Don’t be a jealous prat, Pans,” I reply without looking up. I’ve shuffled the letter to the bottom--it doesn’t warrant a reply--and I instead look at the last letter. 

It’s another from my mother, and the same rage and discomfort rears itself inside me and I grab my wand to set it on fire--but Pansy makes a noise of disapproval. 

“What she’s got to say might change your mind on that,” she says sharply. “Normally you’re not one to be rash.” 

I don’t feel the need to tell her that I’ve ever reason to be rash, and angry. But I don’t; for some god-forsaken reason, I listen. 

The envelope is thick--expensive stationary is a requisite to my mother’s letters. I pull out the note within, and even seeing her handwriting physically pains me. Because--

Because she left me there, in the basement. I risked my life and was paying for it, and she couldn’t even--

She left me there. 

“Pans, I don’t want to,” I say. 

“I don’t give a rat’s arse,” she replies. “You’re allowed to be uncomfortable so long as you damn well read it, because you’ll regret it if you don’t hear her out and she dies an early death from grief.” 

“Thanks for that disturbing specificity,” I mumble as a reply, but I’m suitably cowed. I unfold the paper and hold my breath. 

_ Draco, my beautiful son,  _ it begins. And I already let out the breath and snap at Pansy, “Stop reading over my shoulder!” 

_ I don’t expect forgiveness and I would not ask it of you. I could plead ignorance, but that would be a lie. I knew you were in the basement, Draco, and I was helpless to protect you. Know that I was never on the Dark Lord’s side, never on any side but yours.  _

_ I must apologize because I underestimated you. There is strength in you even I was not aware of. Even if you never speak to me again, I wish for you to know that when I heard of your escape--when I heard of your defiance and your determination--I realized that I need never worry about you. Draco, I have never been more proud.  _

_ I do not know all of what happened to you, and I would not ask you to tell me. Know, however, that while your father may have escaped Azkaban, he has been dealt with. As for my sister--death was kind.  _

_ I know I have not said this far often enough, but I love you.  _

_ Also, I heard that there is an opening for the position of Astronomy professor at Hogwarts. I thought I should warn you of my application in case you wish to avoid me.  _

_ -Narcissa Black  _

“Of course she would,” I say aloud. 

“Draco--” says Pansy, ever so tentatively. It’s only then that I realize tears are flowing freely from the corner of my eyes.

“I don’t know why I blamed her anyway,” I murmur. She puts her hand on my shoulder very carefully, and I quip, “I won’t break.” 

“I know,” she says, patient for once. She waits for me to say something more, and I take deep breaths. 

“I didn’t expect to feel relieved,” I say, and it’s true. I do. 

“Come on,” she says, once she thinks I’ve emoted sufficiently. “The Ravenclaw tower is waiting, so I’ve heard.” 

We work comfortably side by side. I’ve missed this--I’ve missed her. When we’re done, we’re physically exhausted but mentally invigorated. We eat dinner, and then stare at each other like there’s nothing else that needs to be done. 

I show her my patronus; she calls me a prat. I tell her that one day, she’ll get over the fact that I’m everything she wants in a man. 

Astoria rolls her eyes at us. It’s late when we finally decide to go to bed, but none of us are tired. 

“I don’t want to sleep,” Astoria announces, even though she’s already situated in her bed and looks quite comfortable. She observes the two of us carefully and then clambers out of bed in her white nightgown, and stands by the window for a moment. She looks a little like an angel, small and frail, almost floating. She turns back to us and she seems more concrete. 

“Come on,” she says, and her voice is whispery. “Get your violin, Pansy. Follow me.” 

“I don’t have my cello,” I say, as I slip out from underneath the covers of my bed. 

“I do,” says Astoria. “Or rather, Hogwarts has been holding it for you.” 

We stand next to each other as if we’re at the start of some great adventure. She takes Pansy’s right hand, and my left. Her hands are small and cold. It’s funny that it feels like a beginning, because we’ve done this so many times before. 

“Come on,” she repeats. She leads us out of the dormitory, and she sets her jaw in a hard line. We tiptoe down the halls, as if we’re hiding from someone--it’s funny. There’s no one left to hide from. 

When we reach the Room of Requirement, it feels like an old memory. It dawns on me that that’s what we’re doing--we’re revisiting. Rebuilding. Starting up from zero. 

We play until dawn. Astoria’s voice floats like a feather in a thunderstorm. My cello is there, is beautiful and welcoming. And in the morning, when Pansy’s and my fingers are rubbed raw and Astoria’s voice is hoarse, we stumble back into the dormitory. 

I sit on my bed and watch the sun rise. It occurs to me that the sun rises in the same simple, unassuming way that it has every day. The moon sits in the sky, as it always will. Nothing can be rewritten or undone. Our lives are fragile as silk threat, and life itself is a profound impossibility. But here we are, and as long as we are here, we will drag ourselves out of bed, and we will live, hopeless or not. 

There are no guarantees that this life will be palatable. There are no guarantees I will find the strength to move on from what has happened to me. But the sun rises in the morning, and as I look out the stained glass window, I realize that it’s beautiful. 

I look from the window, to Astoria’s calm expression in her sleep, and the way that Pansy’s face scrunches up when she snores. I look back at the pale sunlight streaming through the window and I think of the thousands of people turning over in bed, getting ready to rise. 

I cry. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's done.   
> I hope you enjoyed; I know I did.   
> If you have any questions about what happens to the characters, I have quite the headcanon--so just ask me in the comments! :^)  
> -sww


End file.
